MJ insisted on doing her own hair today. Not that I ever do it. I am banned from getting anywhere near her locks. It’s like there’s a coiffure-related restraining order on me. Break it, and I go to a prison made entirely of shrieks. I’m too rough, according to her. Mike, on the other hand, is gentleness personified. According to MJ, that is. And it’s probably true. He’s the far more patient parent. A good part of our respective parenting philosophies could be boiled down to: I want to get it done. He wants to spare her pain.
At any rate, hair-wise, he can do no wrong. As such, he regularly puts Myra-Jean in hairdos so elaborate that all that’s missing from them is the proverbial basket of fruit.
But this morning, when it came time to perform MJ’s toilette, Mike had already left for work. So it was either she did it, or no one. Which would result in the waiflike Cousin It style she so frequently sports when I’m the only one around. Nothing, I thought, could be as bad as that.
So I encouraged her to go to it. And she did. Seventeen or so barrettes later, we were ready to walk out the door. To the house, fortunately, of another mom, who would understand when I said, brightly and mildly wild-eyed: “Myra-Jean did her own hair this morning!